


Pride

by HereToWrite



Series: The Captain of My Soul [2]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The A-Team (TV), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst, Character growth?, Father-Son Relationship, First Meetings, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, The trope of choice y’all, also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29993817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereToWrite/pseuds/HereToWrite
Summary: Lionesses are born to hunt and they’re no exception.John knows this. Feels it like an addiction. Knows that he and Minerva will never be able to let go of the thrill of chasing an enemy, of capturing one, of winning. There isn’t anything like it. The taste of it lights in a fire in them like nothing ever has, nor ever will.This instinct inside them is who he is, is who they are. And they’ll follow it to their salvation or to their doom.In which every man needs a team and every lion needs a pride and maybe Hannibal can find someone worth investing in
Series: The Captain of My Soul [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801135
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Pride

Lionesses are born to hunt and they’re no exception.

John knows this. Feels it like an addiction. Knows that he and Minerva will never be able to let go of the thrill of chasing an enemy, of capturing one, of _winning_. There isn’t anything like it. The taste of it lights in a fire in them like nothing ever has, nor ever will.

This _instinct_ inside them is who he is, is who _they are_. And they’ll follow it to their salvation or to their doom.  
— — —

When John was young and naive his mother had told him that Minerva had been named after the goddess of the arts. He knows better now.

Knows that the Minerva of old may have had the hands of an artist, but she carried with her the mind of a strategist. The heart of a warrior. The taste for justice. Knows that while the goddess brought beauty into the world she also carried with her the air of danger. Of war.

Knows that Minerva might’ve been named after the goddess of the arts, and him a saint, but that they—like her—were made for combat.

He thinks this, says this, as his mother dabs a rag against his bloodied lip.

“It’ll get you in trouble,” his mother says, her voice sad. “You need to be more careful. There are better things to be than a fighter.”

“But they were being mean,” he protests. “You told me to protect people. _Dad_ told me to protect people.”

“I know, I know,” and there’s something sad in his mother’s eyes that he doesn’t understand. Something wistful. At her side Benedict’s nose twitches and his ears lay back. Her hands come away to hold his own.

At his feet Minerva, unsettled, but unchanging, watches with fierce eyes and a swishing tail.

“I’m not going to stop,” he decides aloud, and his mother’s hands grip him a little tighter.

“Just promise me you’ll be more careful,” she tells him.

“I promise.”

— — —

He’s careful, _they’re_ careful, but they don’t stop.

They fight bullies on the playground and when the bullies grow up, they grow up with them. Wearing each blackened eye and each bloodied lip like a badge of honor.

They push their way through life acting like they’re the best, until they are the best. Until they’ve become justice personified. Until no one dares to oppose them and when the army requests their services? Well who are they to say no?

“You’ll die out there,” his buddies tell him, but he just laughs.

“I’ll pray for you,” his mother whispers and he hugs her close.

But he knows in his heart that he doesn’t need prayers. That he’s far too clever to die and far too egocentric to be scared. So with a salute and a smile he pulls on his fatigues, squares his shoulders, and baptizes himself anew. John Smith is common, _Hannibal_ is a name to be feared.

Hannibal is a name that even the goddess Minerva herself would be proud of.

He leaves John Smith in the backwater town of nowhere in particular and Hannibal goes to war.

He rises through the ranks and by the time people start to feel nervous it’s too late. He makes colonel and feels unstoppable.

Minerva disagrees.

“You need to be more careful,” she hisses, tail swishing in displeasure.

He scoffs, nudges her with his foot, “Just me?”

“ _Fine_ ,” she snaps. “ _We_ need to be more careful. This isn’t a game John. Not anymore, not like before.”

He freezes at that. Thinks of bodies, of friends long gone, and friends long changed by war. He thinks of sleepless nights and blood smeared hands. He thinks of home and pushes that part of him that longs for it away. He’s here now. No use regretting what could’ve been.

“ _John_ ,” Minerva growls.

“I know,” he snaps back. “You think I don’t understand what’s at stake here?”

“I don’t know anymore? _Do you_?”

“Yes,” he insists, but golden eyes meet blue and he knows she doesn’t believe him. Not really. Not when she can feel every emotion—every sorrow, every dream, every _doubt_ —that rushes through him. Not when she understands better than anyone the adrenaline addiction that he’s managed to bestow upon both of them.

He looks away first—he’s never been good at being honest with himself.

Minerva whines in the back of her throat and it tugs at his heart. He doesn’t know how to this.

“I just want you to be careful,” she tells him softly, resting her head on his knee.

“I know,” he places his hand on her head. He thinks of his mother. “I know.”

Neither of them move for a very long time.

— — —

That night he jolts up from the nightmare that leaves his soul and leg aching and pushes himself out of bed.

“John?” Minerva questions.

He ignores her, instead pulling out the old box under his bed and dumpin files and folders, and pictures onto his desk. He always swears he’ll never come back here. He always comes back anyways.

Swiping the undesirable ones back into the box he sits down and begins to flick through what’s left. Names, ranks, and qualities all stretch out before him. Strange faces that he pretends he doesn’t want to get to know.

Minerva pads over to him, circles, stops, and rises to rest her front paws and head on the table.

“John,” she sighs and he can feel the sting of pity that jolts through her. “You’re really going to try and put another team together?”

He bristles, “Of course.”

He says this like he’d never given up on the project. Like he knows what he’s doing. He say this, because _Hannibal_ is supposed to be unstoppable and he isn’t supposed to have doubts and fears that keep him up in the middle of the night.

“John,” he groans at her tone, pressing his hands against his eyes. “You aren’t a team player. _We’re_ not a team player.”

“I know,” and the admission tastes sour on his lips. _Hannibal_ doesn’t have flaws, so why does John Smith have so many? “But lions,” he reminds her, “are social animals.”

She’s quiet at that but the loneliness flows off her in waves, mixing with his own. They may not be team players, but every great man needs a team, every lion needs a pride. For one brief, irrational second, he misses his mother. He pushes it away.

“We are,” she admits at last, she moves his hands to look at her.

She looks sad, he probably looks it too. They’re good at planning, at fighting bullies, at relying on each other. They aren’t good at making friends.

Friends aren’t won in the same way battles are. There’s no strategizing, no laying careful traps of honey until they stick to your side. Instead, friends are won with vulnerability and tenderness and love and all the things they aren’t. Hannibal lets his head fall back into his hands and closes his eyes. Surely this won’t not be the thing to defeat them.

“That one,” Minerva says suddenly and he startles, looking over at her. She’s studying his files intently, eyes narrow. “The kid on the left, he’ll work.”

He grabs the paper and studies it. Templeton Peck is young, barely 21, and looks more like he belongs on a runway than a battlefield.

“This one?” He chortles. “Come on Minerva, he looks like he’s barely old enough to shave.”

“He’ll be good for you,” she insists. “I can tell.” She pads back over to the bed, jumps up and stretches, before laying down.

“Care to expand on that statement?” He follows her, laying down so his head rests against her side.

“No.” Which means she’s guessing. He scowls at her anyway.

“When did my soul become so abstruse?”

“When did you?”

“Touché.” He says and leaves it at that.

— — —

It takes Hannibal three days to track down Templeton Peck and another three to finally meet the man face to face. He’s losing his touch.

He lands at the base and stops the first person he finds to ask after the boy.

“He’s nothing, but trouble,” the major in front of him grunts. “Did you know I have over 50 reports of stolen goods that put the blame on him?”

“Then why hasn’t he been arrested?” Hannibal asks flippantly. “Isn’t that how these things usually go?”

The major grumbles, looks away. The wolf daemon at his feet snorts. Hannibal beams like a child on Christmas.

“You haven’t been able to catch him have you? Over 50 reports and you’ve got nothing to show for it!” It’s beautiful, amazing, the perfect kind of mischief.

“It’s him,” the major insists. “I know it is. You can tell just by looking at him and that fox he has.” At the comment Hannibal’s smile slips carefully off his face. The major doesn’t notice. “You know how foxes are: sneaky, untrustworthy, thieves—the lot of them. All I need is the proof and I’ll have him arrested like that—“ he snaps—“The kid is asking for trouble and I’m going to give it to him.”

Somehow, by some miracle, Hannibal manages to keep his face carefully blank, but at his side he can see Minerva’s lip start to curl and her tail start to flick. They don’t like bullies—especially ones like this.

“I have to say I do know how it is,” he says easily, fighting the urge to circle the major. “All those untrustworthy foxes and ravenous, dangerous, wolves.” He eyes the wolf daemon lazily and ignores the way her hackles rise.

The major’s face turns a lovely shade of red for his efforts, “Why you—I’ll have you for insubordination!”

“Hmmm,” Hannibal nods like he cares. “You do that, the name’s John Smith by the way, have fun tracking me down.” He turns and leaves the man stuttering at the air.

“That’s going to come back to bite us,” Minerva reprimands, once they’re at a minimal safe distance.

“I don’t like bullies,” he snarls.

“I never said he didn’t deserve it, but I think it’s important that at least one of us is keeping track of the enemies we’re making.”

“They can’t afford to lose us,” he says confidently. “Now let’s find Peck and get the heck out of here—preferably with him in tow.”

They find him on the outskirts of the camp, sitting against a bunker wall and seemingly enthralled by whatever he’s sketching in the dirt. There’s a red fox lying at his side, tail twitching and mouth moving to words Hannibal can’t hear.

“Excuse me,” he asks as he approaches, “are you Templeton Peck?”

Peck jumps, scrambles to his feet, and announces, not at all convincingly, “I didn’t do it.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, but eye the boy with a frown. Something isn’t right. It isn’t just Peck’s nervousness or obvious lie, but the very man himself seems off. The person doesn’t look like the bright young man in his file, rather he looks anxious, withdrawn. Mostly, Hannibal decides, he just looks tired.

“Well?”

Ah he’s been quiet too long. Clearing his throat, Hannibal says calmly, “I didn’t say you did anything. Mind if I sit down?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, he hardly ever does, choosing instead to plop himself down in the dirt and take a look at Peck’s drawing.

You can tell a lot about a man by what he does when no one’s around.

“That’s a might pretty girl you’ve drawn there,” or at least she would be if she wasn’t limited to the medium of stick on dirt. “She have a name?”

Peck’s reaction is immediate and violent. His face goes pink and then red and then blank, as he kicks the image away. “No.”

Hannibal frowns and moves his eyes away from Peck to look at the fox. Her ears are flat against her head and her tail droops as she lets out a sad whine that Hannibal barely hears and Peck ignores.

Peck takes a step in front of the fox. It’s defensive, the covering up of a weakness, but Hannibal knows what he saw. He can honestly say it’s been a while since he’s seen such a disheartening duo.

“Right, well, with that mystery solved why don’t you sit down son and we can talk.”

“Don’t call me son,” Peck snaps. “I’m not a child.”

“Hmm, valid point, it won’t happen again. Now please, sit, I’m gonna get a crick in the neck staring at you like this.”

There’s no answer, but Peck sits and Hannibal will take his victories where he can get them.

He waits for a moment before speaking. Partly because he likes to watch people squirm, but mostly because he can’t quite figure out what to say. He may not be good at making friends, but he also doesn’t think friendship is on the table just yet which makes the task easier. Right now Peck is just a potential ally in a long list of them. There’s nothing scary about that. Nothing intimidating or unknowable.

At his side Minerva lays down next to him and he takes a moment to card his fingers through her fur.

“Well?” Peck’s voice breaks the silence. So he’s the impatient type. That’s fine, so is Hannibal. “Is there something specific you wanted, sir?” The sir is tacked on quickly at the end, half forgotten in the impatient question.

Hannibal eyes Peck—somehow sad and angry all at once—and decides on his next move.

“What are you doing here, Peck?”

“You said you had a question for me.”

“Not here in the dirt, in ‘Nam.” He clarifies. “You weren’t drafted, you signed up, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a volunteer look so upset, so quickly, about ending up somewhere he chose to be. So why are you here? What are you running from?”

The boy stares. His lip trembles, the fox at his side whines. Then like a switch, the pain vanishes from Peck’s face and he leans back easily. The lip stops trembling, and the fox lays down out of view. It’s a well rehearsed maneuver.

“Who says I’m running from something? Maybe I just wanted to serve my country.”

Hannibal frowns at that. Watches the duo, because the thing that’s interesting about Peck is if Hannibal were just looking at him he’d be inclined to believe him. The kid’s an excellent liar and has a smile so large that it smothers his tells. If Peck were alone Hannibal could very well buy into the idea that some poor fool, with dreams of grandeur, had simply stumbled into a war he didn’t understand, but Peck wasn’t alone. And just on the other side of his knee Hannibal can see the fox, curled up, and shivering, and carefully giving away every lie Peck’s concocted.

The kid may be a liar, but he wears all his emotions on his sleeve.

So Hannibal snorts and let’s the kid know he’s been caught, “In a war the country doesn’t approve of? Come on kid, I ain’t dense. Now tell me really, what brought you out here?”

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here first,” Peck sneers. “An eye for an eye and all that.”

He’s defensive. The conversation they’re having is littered with mines and Hannibal thinks he might just be about to set one off.

He takes a breath and gives up a little ground.

“I can’t say I’ve ever been an overly religious man, but I see where you’re coming from.” He leans back and chews his lip—he should’ve brought a cigar. “I suppose we’ll start with why I’m here sitting in the dirt with a nobody private like yourself.” Peck glares, Hannibal smirks. “I heard from a major that you’re responsible for over 50 thefts around base.”

Peck snorts, “More like 40, and they don’t have proof I did anything.”

“Which is different than saying you didn’t do it,” Hannibal points out.

“No offense _sir_ ,” the sir is snarled like an insult, “but I’m not in the habit of explaining myself to strangers.”

“Not truthfully anyway,” Hannibal shoots back and Peck glares as his daemon’s hackles raise. Good. It’s nice to know there’s still some fight in there somewhere.

“Either tell me what you want or leave,” Peck scowls.

“Put simply, kid I want you. I’m putting together a team and you’re my first target.”

At his side Minerva winces, “Don’t call him a target you idiot,” she hisses. Hannibal shushes her.

Peck’s brow furrows, eyes suspicious, “You want me?”

“Sure,” Hannibal tells him, “a man with your, uh, alleged skill set would be helpful.”

The fox flicks her tail and her ears prick up. If nothing else he at least knows he has the boy’s attention.

“Helpful with what,” Peck says slowly.

“Missions here and there. I’ve been wanting to put together a team for a while now, but nothing’s stuck.”

“And why’s that?”

Hannibal frowns, closes his hand against Minerva’s fur, “Ah well you see Minerva and I aren’t exactly the best team players. Things sort of just keep falling apart or falling through, but I think you and I could get along. We’re getting along right now aren’t we?”

“We’re arguing,” Peck deadpans.

“We’re getting to know one another,” he corrects.

Peck snorts and Hannibal feels his own lip quirk up, “Why don’t we start over. The name’s Hannibal, unless I’m trying to avoid trouble than it’s John Smith, this beautiful lady is Minerva. And you are?”

Peck blinks and just when Hannibal thinks he’s created a terribly awkward silence the boy goes, “I guess you already know I’m Templeton Peck, this is Sangi.” He gestures at the fox.

“See that wasn’t so hard now was it?” Hannibal says. “Now, Minerva and I are putting together a team. We’d like you in on it. Would you care to join us?”

There, nice and straight forward. They can unpack whatever sort of issues and secrets Peck and Sangi have later. Right now Hannibal just wants to keep them where he can see them. Partly because he’s selfish, but mostly because he’s worried that if he lets Peck go now he’s never going to see the boy again.

There’s an air about him, a man who’s standing on the edge of a cliff and doesn’t seem to mind which way he falls. It’s a dangerous thing to have in a solider and Hannibal doesn’t wish to see it play out.

The silence stretches on for far longer than Hannibal’s comfortable with, before Peck breaks it.

“Can we think about it?” He asks.

Disappointment sinks into Hannibal, a familiar lifelong feeling, that he pushes away with a smile and a nod, “Of course. I’m set to head back from whence I came tomorrow morning so you’ll have to decide by then. I wish I could give you more time, but that’s all I have.”

“That’s fine.”

Hannibal nods again, stands, and offers Peck a hand up.

The boy eyes it and this time Hannibal hears a soft—“don’t be stubborn”—from Sangi before Peck takes it and allows himself to be pulled up.

“If you want to come, I’ll meet you at the chopper pad, at 900 sharp. If you’re not there well, I’ll figure you’ve turned down my offer to come draw in the dirt some more.”

Peck snatches his hand back and sneers as Sangi’s hackles raise again.

“John,” Minerva hisses in exasperation.

Hannibal winces, but doesn’t apologize. No bother regretting what you can’t take back.

“Right,” he says awkwardly. “I’ll be seeing you I guess.”

““Wait! You never did tell me why you’re here in ‘Nam. That was part of the deal.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, “It was, wasn’t it.” He thinks about leaving it on that note, but relents. “I don’t like bullies son, the bullies grew up and I grew up with them. Now I’m here and whether or not that was the right choice in life differs depending on who you ask, but I’m a man of my word and so here I am.”

Then because he’s feeling reckless and the opportunity is there he says, “And now it’s your turn. An eye for an eye and all that.”

For a moment he doesn’t think the kid will answer, but he does.

“I didn’t have anything left back in the states. I guess I just wanted a chance to start over,” he says it flippantly. Like it’s the weather or the stock market, but there’s that slight tremble of the lip again. The drooping tail of the fox. That desperate air of a man who can’t decide which way to fall.

He hums and risks putting a hand on the kid’s shoulder, then forces their eyes to meet. “If you’re willing,” he says seriously. “I think there’s plenty left for you to have here. But if you want to find out if that’s true or not I’ll need you on that helicopter pad tomorrow.”

Peck doesn’t answer. Or perhaps Hannibal doesn’t wait long enough for one. It’s hard to tell in that moment.

Either way he and Minerva turn and leave the duo behind them.

Either way it’s very hard not to look back.

— — —

Minvera paces so Hannibal doesn’t have to.

“Will you stop that, he’ll be here.”

“Oh please,” Minerva tells him. “Don’t act like you aren’t just as anxious as I am. I can feel every bit of nervousness rolling off you right now.”

Hannibal doesn’t deny it, but only because there’s no point in lying to one’s own soul.

“He’ll be here,” he reaffirms.

Except that it’s 8:50 and the chopper he’s set up to take them out of here is all primed and loaded up with everything except Hannibal’s whole reason for coming out here in the first place.

Minerva’s tail flicks, her ears press back, “I don’t think he’s coming.”

“He’ll be here. He’s still got 10 minutes and I plan on giving him every second of them.”

He ends up having to give him 8 minutes and 30 seconds before Peck comes running around the corner of one of the buildings.

“See!” He tells Minerva, “What did I tell you?”

He stands from where he’s been lounging and smiles as Peck comes up to him.

“What took you so long?” He asks in lieu of a greeting. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

“Just had a few things I wanted to grab.”

Minerva sniffs then sneezes, “You brought cologne to a war zone?” She asks incredulously.

Peck’s cheeks color.

Sangi’s tail flicks and sticks her nose into the air, “We have standards.”

Peck’s face goes even redder as he looks down at the fox in horror.

Hannibal barks out a laugh, “Cologne? What else did you bring along breath mints and foundation?”

Peck somehow manages to blush even harder and Minerva’s mouth has split into something that might’ve been a grin if there weren’t so many teeth.

Then Peck rights himself, straightens his fatigues and with a brashness Hannibal has to commend says, “My face is my fortune. How do you think I keep getting a hold of all those things I need? And if you aren’t comfortable with the way I work then I suppose I’ll have to find work elsewhere.”

Sangi snorts out a laugh and Peck looks at her like it’s a betrayal.

Hannibal just grins, “Whatever works son, I’m interested in the results not what goes on behind the scenes.” He claps a hand on Peck’s shoulder and starts to guide him towards the chopper, “Come on then face man your chariot awaits.”

Peck gives me an unamused look, but Sangi’s tail flicks and her tongue lolls out of her mouth and Hannibal knows he’s got them.

Then he sneaks a look at Minerva—head high and tail swishing lazily—and realizes for better or for worse somehow Peck managed to get them too.

**Author's Note:**

> Get it cuz Hannibal’s a prideful person and because it’s called a pride of lions? I’m hilarious anyway! I hope y’all liked the story, it’s kind of the last one I have planned so far within this universe so if you want to see more let me know! (Besides the settling story I do have plans to finish that!) 
> 
> The classic whose daemon is whose and what animal they are that's always at the bottom of these kinds of stories.
> 
>  **Hannibal:** Minerva, a lioness, hunters known for courage, strength and justice. They are the only cats known to have close-knit social groups and to regularly hunt in groups. 
> 
> **Hannibal’s Mom:** Benedict, Flemish Giant rabbit, docile, but aggressive when feeling threatened these rabbits are powerful in their own way. 
> 
> **Faceman:** Sangi, a fox, foxes are stereotypically sly and sneaky. However they can sometimes mean good fortune or good luck. 
> 
> **Unnamed Soldier:** Unnamed, wolf, pack animals that are usually associated with danger and destruction. However they also can be associated with loyalty and strength, but this dude was a jerk so let’s go with the the former. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


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